


Even Angels Fall

by Iolre



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Drug Use, Eventual cuddles, Eventual kissing, Fallen Angel, First Kiss, Fluff, Freaking stubborn boys, Greg has all the bromances, Lots of denial of feelings, M/M, Mentions of past drug use, Slow Build, Slowly developing relationship, minor injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 08:25:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They didn’t have names for each other, not proper names, but all knew each other on sight. The Guardians were a close-knit crew, after all. They watched over their charges, saw them grow up, make decisions, both good and bad. None broke the rules, none broke the ultimate rule. They could not interfere directly, no matter what. That was a rule the one that would later be known as ‘Gregory Lestrade’ adhered to. Time passed. There was pain, there were bad choices, but it was manageable. No matter what he felt, He could deal with the pain.</p><p>Until He saw it. Until He saw his was suffering, saw him make the ultimate decision.</p><p>That was how He fell to Earth.</p><p>or, How Sherlock's Guardian Angel fell to Earth and they saved each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even Angels Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Wow this prompt got so freaking out of control.
> 
> Based off of this prompt: I heard you like angst, let's have some moar :D Prompt: Lestrade is Sherlock's guardian angel. When Sherlock falls, he caught him. They both survived but Lestrade lost his wings (maybe he wasn't supposed to interfere with this) and became human. Maybe Sherlock still denies the existence of angels. Take it where ever you like

They didn’t have names for each other, not proper names, but all knew each other on sight. The Guardians were a close-knit crew, after all. They watched over their charges, saw them grow up, make decisions, both good and bad. None broke the rules, none broke the ultimate rule. They could not interfere directly, no matter what. That was a rule the one that would later be known as ‘Gregory Lestrade’ adhered to. Time passed. There was pain, there were bad choices, but it was manageable. No matter what he felt, He could deal with the pain.

Until He saw it. Until He saw his was suffering, saw him make the ultimate decision.

That was how He fell to Earth.

It took Him a few moments to work out the oddly shaped mechanism, even longer to figure out what numbers to press. He had seen his use it several times, knew how it worked, but when the voice came out of it, it still took Him off guard. But He managed. Told them what they needed to know, what had happened. No one questioned how He knew. They just did what they did best, and saved him. He looked down at Sherlock’s drawn, pale face as they took him away, and did not regret His decision.

Less than a few Earth hours later, He was back above, standing in front of the council. He was to be banished, stripped of His wings, cast to Earth, to live a mortal life. It was a punishment He took stoically, and He did not say anything, did not look at the others as He was escorted away. It was His choice, and no one else’s. They did not deserve to be sullied by His presence. Moments before it happened, before it all became official, a small piece of paper was slipped into His hands.

When he opened his eyes, they were useless, blurry - nothing like he had been accustomed to with His senses. He could no longer smell, could no longer feel the various heartbeats moving around him. It felt like he was being smothered, like his senses were blunted. The body was similar, not unfamiliar, but the movements felt slow and jerky, rather than fast and sleek. It was then that he heard the crinkle, saw the paper in his hand. He stared at it, narrowed unfamiliar eyes.

There was simply a number. A phone number? He had some experience with those. Long hours of watching Sherlock were paying off, and he hoped they would continue to be useful. He closed and then opened his eyes, willing them to focus, taking in his surroundings. It was a small room, nondescript, with a simple bed and a stand of sorts with - a phone. A grin lit up his features and he crossed the room, picking it up and dialing the number.

He wrinkled his nose at the loudness of the ringing. “Hello?” The voice was mechanical, and unfamiliar, but he sighed his relief.

“Hello?” He tried out his voice, grimacing at the peculiar sound. They hadn’t spoke, rarely used words, and speech was altogether abnormal.

“Stay there. I shall be there momentarily,” the voice said. He found himself nodding, and then frowned.

“Yes.” There was a click, and the call was over. He did not stop to think about how the person - was it a man? The voice sounded masculine - knew where he was. Instead, he walked to the edge of the bed and sat, feeling the softness of the cotton against his bare skin. His fingers sprawled out against the fabric, and he peered down at the interlocking threads. Some amount of time later - it felt like nothing to him, but neither did the years he had watched Sherlock - a man walked through the door.

He tilted his head, regarding this strange man. The human was elegantly dressed, multiple layers, with an umbrella draped over his arm. He was oddly familiar. “My name is Mycroft,” he said.

He shrugged, blinked. He didn’t have a name, not really. Not one he could speak. The human - Mycroft - smiled slightly, and stood closer, and he could see that there was a bag in Mycroft’s hand. “These are for you,” Mycroft continued. “Clothes. Who were you Guarding? Why did you Fall?”

He felt his face flicker as the memories passed through his mind. Emotions. As Him he did not experience many of those, but he had seen Sherlock suffer more than necessary. Just a normal aspect of human behavior, one he was to get used to. “Sherlock Holmes,” he started, and then stopped as Mycroft’s expression changed drastically. It was then that he realized where he had seen him. Not this age, but as a child, years ago. “You’re related to him?”

“In a way,” Mycroft replied, his expression tight. “If you open the bag, there is an outfit that you shall wear, since it is considered improper to wander about London nude.”

He found himself nodding, and he opened the bag to find jeans and a button up shirt. “They will fit?” he asked, fingers unconsciously caressing the fabric. It was nothing like what They wore, but it was what he had to work with, and it was an integral part of his new life.

“Yes,” Mycroft said absently. He felt Mycroft’s gaze on him as he dressed, putting on the pants, trousers, and shirt with clumsy fingers. He had seen, he had observed, but it was different from wearing the garments himself. Finally he got it, and smoothed the wrinkles down, trying to emulate the man in front of him. He sat back down on the bed, looking expectantly at Mycroft.

“What next?” he asked.

“You will accompany me to my home,” Mycroft informed him, pulling out a small phone and poking at the buttons. He watched Mycroft curiously, but looked away when the taller man looked his way. “There will be intensive therapy, adjusting you to human life. We will discover your skill sets, and determine what sort of position in life would best suit you as you continue to adjust.”

“What about.” He stopped, hesitating, and then continued. “What about Sherlock?”

Mycroft stilled for a moment, and then made eye contact, his gaze intent. “What about him?”

He sat cross-legged on the bed. “I want to help him.”

Mycroft inclined his head slightly. “Off we go.”

He spent the next three months confined to Mycroft’s manor, being jabbered at day and night, taught skills, learned his history, learned how to be human. In return, he gave Mycroft small bits and pieces of Sherlock’s history, things the older brother did not know. Much of it he kept to himself, protecting Sherlock’s privacy, but there were a few things he allowed himself to share. Finally, one night, Mycroft sat him down at the table and slid an envelope towards him. “This is your new identity,” he informed him. “Study it. Memorize it.”

He opened the envelope, read the name at the top, his eyebrows creating a furrow in his forehead. “Gregory Lestrade?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “You may go by a nickname if you would like. You’re a Detective Inspector with the New Scotland Yard, recently transferred.”

“Greg, I think,” he mused, and then shifted in his chair. “Detective Inspector?” Mycroft lifted an eyebrow, and Greg sorted through his mental files. Oh. “Already?”

“I place my assets where they will have the most use.” Mycroft leaned forward, hands clasped underneath his chin. “Therefore, that is where you will be. Study the hierarchy, learn your subordinates. You will need to manage them effectively.”

Greg absently nodded his agreement, flipping through the file and starting to sort out the information in his mind. His history, his parents, one brother. Coworkers, past work history. Criminal cases. He lifted his head. “What about Sherlock?” His voice was absent-minded, like he had forgotten the younger Holmes brother, but that was anything but the truth. Greg had spent long hours over the past months wondering how he was doing. After spending years watching Sherlock’s every move, not being able to see him was agony.

“All will come in time, Gregory,” Mycroft admonished.

“Greg,” he corrected.

“Gregory,” Mycroft replied, a slight smirk on his lips.

Greg rolled his eyes. Mycroft could say whatever he liked, but the moment he had time, he was going to find Sherlock.

That turned out to take a lot longer than Greg anticipated. He was thrust into work, managing caseloads that he had not anticipated and interdepartmental politics he had no experience with. His fellow Guardians had not fought on this scale, had not cheated, argued, schemed. He still lived with Mycroft, still went home every night and puzzled over the cases, over the dynamics, thinking and rethinking everything he did in order to perfect his appearance, his history. Every night, he fell asleep thinking of Sherlock. Hoping he was okay. Wishing he could see him again.

The few times he had enough free time to attempt to find the younger Holmes brother, he was nowhere to be found. None of his regular bolt holes. He contacted none of his regular dealers. Every clue Greg got ended in a dead end. So he waited. Not very patiently, but he did. Listened for whispers from the dealers they arrested. Talked to the homeless. Made connections, made friends.

It was six months later when Greg finally saw Sherlock for the first time. He was standing over a crime scene, baffled. A woman had been murdered in a locked room, no evidence of suicide. It was obviously a murder. The door banged open and a tall, lanky figure came in, obviously high. Greg turned, ready to order Sally to have him removed, when he realized who it was. Sherlock. His heart raced and everything became too warm, too focused, and a grin lit his face. Quickly he calmed himself, forced everything down - compartmentalized, like Mycroft taught him.

“What do you want?” he barked. Sherlock looked at him, pinprick pupils, flushed cheeks, languid drawl.

“It’s so obvious,” Sherlock informed him. “I don’t know how you don’t see it.” He proceeded to rattle off his deductions, impart the solution that made sense and solved the case in front of him. Greg listened to Sally call him crazy, listened to Anderson insult his intelligence, and told them in no polite terms to shut up. Instead, Greg drew Sherlock aside, sat him down. And listened.

Sherlock showed up more and more often. Greg lived for the puzzling cases, for the times Sherlock came, whether he was high or not. He didn’t agree with Sherlock’s choices, felt sad all the times he was high, but there was something that resonated with him whenever Sherlock was around. Greg didn’t want to push him into rehab, into changing. He had seen Mycroft try that and had seen it fail. Sherlock was the only one that could make that decision.

So he suffered in silence. Found out where Sherlock lived, and when he didn’t see him often enough, carved out time in his schedule to hunt him down. Make sure he was okay. Sherlock never overdosed again, but there were a few close calls. Greg would get him somewhere safe, wash his brow, make sure he was clean. Kept an eye on his arm the time it became infected. Got him antibiotics. Slipped them into his tea. Nothing overt. He tracked Sherlock, when he moved. Mycroft let him see the CCTV cameras. All of that was less necessary, as Greg grew, gained more of his own skills.

Not that Sherlock was any help. He seemed to have an innate radar for people who cared, and at times would do everything he could to avoid Greg and any potential help Greg could offer. Greg learned the times he could find Sherlock, the times he could risk a quick peek, or the times he could stay, when Sherlock was too high to know who he was or what he was doing. It was like hide and seek sometimes, and eventually, Greg got very good at seeking, and Sherlock hid less and less. Stayed clean, longer and longer, until something happened and he spiraled downward again. But Greg didn’t give up. He stayed, and continued fighting.

“I think it is time,” Mycroft told Greg one night, when the DI was half-asleep, his eyes focused intently on the CCTV footage of Sherlock dozing, high, in a crack den.

“Hmm?” Greg blinked sleepily, not tearing his eyes away from the image in front of him. It had been a particularly bad relapse, and he didn’t have any energy left to focus on whatever cryptic messages Mycroft was sending. All he wanted to do was make sure Sherlock was okay.

Mycroft pulled out a file, and absently Greg wondered exactly how many he had. Greg had amassed a rather large pile, all from Mycroft. There couldn’t be that many more files left on Earth. He certainly hoped not. Inside was a blueprint, a small case, and a packet of documents that Greg skimmed briefly. “This will be your new home.”

Greg stared at Mycroft. He had been living with the elder Holmes the entire time he had been on Earth - it had been over a year. It was difficult to fathom living somewhere else. The look in his eyes was kind, yet stern, and Greg felt oddly like a child, for all that he had the body of a middle-aged human. Mycroft’s home was his safe place. It was where he had learned everything he needed, had been able to assimilate into human society. In a way, he understood. He felt the pieces click together. Sherlock needed a safe place, so it was time to give him one.

“You move in tomorrow,” Mycroft said, opening the case and slipping the key into Greg’s hand. Greg nodded, and then turned his gaze back to the screens.

It was easier than Greg anticipated, adjusting to his new home. There was almost too much space, in a way, but he thrived on it. He learned how to cook, drawing on lessons he had learned at Mycroft’s. His little flat was closer to Scotland Yard than Mycroft’s home had been, allowing him more time to get ready, to prepare, to read. It was feasible to stay up late in the morning pouring over cold cases, trying to find something interesting enough that would draw Sherlock into his office.

A few weeks later, he came home like he always did, late at night, tired as hell. He had the next day off - had been forced to take it, rather - and he was looking forward to a sound night’s sleep. “Hello, Lestrade,” Sherlock drawled. Part of Greg was irritated - he wanted sleep, dammit, not to cater to Sherlock’s whims. The rest was swimming in a sea of feelings, felt the room grow too hot, felt the odd prickling that proceeded Sherlock invading his private space. And showing up in his flat was very much an intrusion of Greg’s personal space.

“You can have the couch if you want it,” Greg informed him, tossing off his coat and walking into the kitchen. He flipped on the kettle, grabbing his favourite tea and tossing the teabag into a mug. After hesitating for a moment, he grabbed a second, noting that Mycroft had recently stocked Sherlock’s preferred tea. It hadn’t been there a few days ago. The room was silent as Lestrade finished preparing the tea. Milk and sugar for him - he still wasn’t completely used to the taste - and a small bit of milk for Sherlock. He brought the mugs to the table and sat Sherlock’s down, keeping his own and settling into the chair he kept at his desk. It wasn’t very comfortable, but the last thing he wanted to do was invade Sherlock’s space and spook him.

“Who are you?” Sherlock’s voice cut through the silence, and Greg tensed, although he fought to keep his body posture nonchalant. He didn’t want to give away anything, something that was difficult when faced with those like Sherlock.

“Forgot my entire name this time, did you?” Greg asked, sipping his tea and emitting a pleased hum. Perfect.

“I know what you call yourself.” Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “What I don’t know is why you have adopted this Lestrade as your identity. Did my brother send you? I know he bought you this flat. Are you spying for him? Ugh. Can’t even do his own field work anymore. Lazy sod.”

Greg chuckled. “It’s complicated.”

Sherlock made a disgusted noise. “I’ve got all night.”

“Good for you,” Greg informed him, drinking the rest of his tea as fast as he could. “I’ve had a long few weeks. I’m going to bed.” It was a risk, brushing him off, but Greg was fairly certain that Sherlock wasn’t going to run, or do anything else that could be labeled as drastic. He wasn’t surprised when Sherlock followed him into his bedroom, although Greg was gratified to see that Sherlock brought his tea and had finished it by the time Greg had stripped bare. Nudity didn’t bother him, and he wasn’t self-conscious in front of others. Judging by the way Sherlock’s irritated muttering had trailed off and then stopped suddenly about the time Greg was dressed in just his pants, Sherlock was slightly more aware of what it meant to be naked.

Greg tossed his pants into the laundry bag and rummaged about in his draws for pyjamas, ignoring Sherlock standing not far from the doorway. “You were saying?” he inquired, pulling on the clean pair of pants once he grabbed them out of the draw.

“What?” Sherlock blinked, dazed, and Greg tried not to chuckle. Since it was cold at night, he grabbed a pair of sweatpants and quickly stepped into them, pulling the thick fabric up and settling the elastic on his hips. He straightened up, stifling a yawn and cracking his back before he plopped down on the bed, bare-chested, and watched Sherlock intently. There was colour on the younger man’s cheeks, and his pupils had dilated the smallest amount. So he wasn’t high.

“You can have the couch,” Greg said, for the second time.

Sherlock seemed to collect himself, and although part of Greg was concerned about his apparent mental lapse, the more human part of him was amused. “You’re not who you say you are,” he pointed out. “It’s subtle, but the signs are there. You’re not used to your environment. Sometimes you forget words, or don’t know what you’re looking for. Could simply be a failing memory, but you’re not old enough, nor are you displaying any other sort of deterioration that would be present in a significant illness.”

“Gee, thanks,” Greg muttered. Was he really old? He didn’t think so. It certainly didn’t seem that way.

Sherlock continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “If one introduces Mycroft’s involvement to the puzzle - you lived with him for the past eighteen months. Unusual, highly unusual, especially as there were no signs of a romantic relationship. Neither of you were particularly distraught when you moved out. If anything, it was like you had never lived on your own before, which would be unusual for someone your age. Now, Mycroft. I have seen others who have spent some amount of time with my brother, although it tends to be three to six months. They tend to be placed in side positions that can observe my actions. Some are homeless, some are not. There’s a DS who fits the profile, yet he only lived with Mycroft for four months. What makes you special? Why eighteen months?”

Greg watched Sherlock evenly, watched him pace about the room, gesture wildly, as if begging all the puzzle pieces to make sense because he asked. “I needed a place to stay after my divorce, is all.”

“You’ve never been married.” Sherlock’s voice was flat, dismissive.

“Yes I have. It’s in the records.”

Sherlock made a rude noise. “Yes, it’s in the records, but my brother could create whatever he wanted on a whim. It is more about your mannerisms. The way you are watching me now, the way you have been guarded since I came into your apartment - you are not used to sharing your space with someone else. Someone who had been married 15 years presumably would be more accustomed or at least adapt better to having someone else in their personal space. It is also probable that you would have had at least a handful of sexual partners prior or since, and would be used to having someone in your space for that reason. Yet you’re not. Why is that?”

“Right,” Greg said. “I think it’s enough of the 20 questions. I’m going to sleep.”

Sherlock let out a frustrated groan. “That doesn’t explain anything.”

Greg sighed, and crawled under the duvet, purposefully sliding onto his side and facing away from Sherlock. Emotions were pesky, and even though he had only been a human for approximately two years, he was still not very good at controlling what showed on his face. “Sometimes things are better left unsaid,” he informed the pillow. Greg couldn’t see, but he could imagine the hand gesture that Sherlock was giving him. It made him chuckle.

He closed his eyes. Heard Sherlock stomp out to the main room and toss things around until he settled, presumably on the couch. It didn’t matter. He could worry about Sherlock and what pieces he was putting together later. For now he had to review. Remember. He was Gregory Lestrade. 44. Divorced two years ago. Married 15 years to a school-teacher who had run off with the PE coach. Started at NSY at 21, fresh out of Uni, and worked his way up the ranks until he reached DI. Parents and a younger brother, all of whom were killed in a car accident when he was a child. He had memories, ones he created, of him playing with his younger brother. Biking. All things that could be used to create rapport with his victims, or their relatives. Normal human things.

No one would believe he was what was called an ‘Angel’ who had Fallen for saving the one person that mattered most. It sounded ludicrous. The only one that knew was the only one that needed to know. Mycroft arranged for everything he needed. Not that Greg needed all of the assistance, not anymore. His salary more than paid for his rent, and anything else he might have wanted to buy. He no longer needed to man the CCTV cameras, not with Sherlock a (fairly) regular presence in his life. Sherlock’s cocaine habit was the last troublesome thing, the last thing that had gotten under his skin and nagged at him.

Greg ignored the tug in his stomach as he thought about Sherlock, ignored the way his skin prickled, how certain parts of him were paying more attention when Sherlock was on his mind. It wasn’t proper, it wasn’t right. He had bigger things to worry about. He didn’t have ‘feelings’ for Sherlock. He couldn’t. That was a human thing, and although Greg was human-shaped, he wasn’t entirely human. Was he?

Flicking the thoughts aside, he forced himself to fall asleep.

When he woke up, early in the afternoon, Sherlock was sulking on his couch, stretched out to take the entire thing. Greg said nothing as he yawned, walking into the kitchen and making some coffee. He liked tea, but coffee got him moving quicker and he needed his brain awake to match Sherlock’s wits. To be kind, Greg had put on a shirt. “Do you want any breakfast?” Greg asked half-heartedly, knowing what Sherlock would say.

Sherlock didn’t even bother saying anything, just snorted.

“I’ll make some anyway,” Greg decided. He liked to cook, when he got the chance, and it was likely to be his last day off for a significant amount of time. A full breakfast spread seemed like a waste, but he had the time, and Sherlock, for once, was keeping his mouth shut. Besides, he could eat the leftovers later. When Greg served him, he ate, watching him suspiciously. Greg ignored the the sidelong glances, focusing on the silly programme on the telly and enjoying the peace and quiet.

“Who are you.” Sherlock’s voice held a plaintive note. In anyone else it would have been pleading. In Sherlock it was petulant and demanding, childish at the same time it was all sulking adult.

“Greg Lestrade,” Greg replied automatically, shoveling the last bits of his food into his mouth.

“Admit you’re lying.” Sherlock ate the last bite of his food and carelessly tossed the dish onto the table in front of them. He was taking up most of his half of the couch, sprawled lazily, clearly sulking.

“I might be lying,” Greg mused. “I might not be. I’ve only ever been known as Greg Lestrade.”

Sherlock’s hands balled into fists. There was a level of distress to his frame that Greg didn’t like. “I know you’re lying,” he hissed. “Why?”

“Sherlock, there are some things that you’re better off not knowing.” Greg scrubbed a hand through his hair, grimaced, picked up the dishes and walked them to the sink. There was no way that Sherlock would believe that Greg was a Guardian who had watched over him, much less saved his life. He was logic and deductions, not - fantasy or speculation. Greg had sometimes wondered how Mycroft reconciled what he did, helping those like Greg get on their feet.

Sherlock fell silent, and Greg settled back on his side of the couch, noting with a mild flash of fond irritation that Sherlock had moved the remote. He reached over to grab it, but got knocked aside mid-movement. Forcibly shifted down, Greg was quickly laying on the length of the couch, with Sherlock’s thin but strong frame pinning him down, those intense eyes inches away from his. He swallowed, audibly, and attempted to force down his body’s reaction. This wasn’t something he had anticipated.

“I remember your face,” Sherlock murmured, his low voice oddly hypnotic. Greg stared at him, his breathing quick and shallow, air mingling with the words coming from the taller man’s lips, as close as they were. “I saw it all the time.” His fingers curled around Greg’s hands, forearms pinning him down, and Sherlock dipped his head down, nose nudging at Greg’s, trailing up to his forehead, down his cheek, before pulling back. “The night I almost died. You were there. But you weren’t Greg.”

His heart was pounding, and he was breathing too fast. Sherlock was warm and his weight was distributed in all the right places. The bastard was probably doing it on purpose. His head was spinning, and he couldn’t think. “I wasn’t.” Triumph flashed briefly on Sherlock’s face, just enough for Greg to catch it, but he was distracted by the way Sherlock’s fingers moved against his hands. It was like a caress, almost like an unconscious movement but deliberately done. Sherlock had seducing someone down to a science, and it made something churn in Greg’s stomach, thinking about what he must have missed, all that he had not witnessed since he had Fallen. What had happened to Sherlock in his absence, without Greg to protect him?

Those whose angels had Fallen were left alone. Fended for themselves, with no one to watch over them. Greg had done his best, once he was down to Earth, but not all of them did. “Get clean,” he said finally, flexing his hands in Sherlock’s loose grasp. “Get clean, and I’ll tell you the whole story.”

“I am clean,” Sherlock murmured, his breath ghosting over Greg’s skin. He was uncomfortably close. Greg shivered. His clothes felt too tight. Everything felt like it was too much.

“No, I mean really clean.” It was a struggle to gather his senses, but he managed. “Six months, at least. No drugs. Regular tests. Whenever I ask.”

Sherlock sneered. “You think that will work?” The warmth, the coziness, was gone, replaced by a blank wall, by derision, by scorn. Greg had done what he had swore not to. But he wasn’t Mycroft. He wasn’t going to make him. In the end, it was Sherlock’s decision. Greg was just going to provide incentive.

“No access to cases without a clean test,” Greg told him. Sherlock’s weight against him disappeared. He was shaking. Anger. Frustration. He stood, a meter away from Greg, his eyes narrowed, his face contemptuous.

“You don’t mean it.” Sherlock reached for his Belstaff, slipped it on. “The moment you have a case, you’ll call me. You can’t solve it on your own.”

“Don’t get your hopes up.” Greg sat up, keeping his gaze firm. He had to stand his ground. He couldn’t stand watching Sherlock destroy himself. Couldn’t allow himself to wonder if it was the right decision. He had to hope it was different. That Sherlock would do it, because it was him. Sherlock would do it because he had to do it for himself.

Sherlock turned and left, slamming the door behind him in an uncharacteristic display of anger. Greg watched him go.

He didn’t see Sherlock for a couple weeks. Ignored the phone calls from Mycroft. Those from Sherlock. Deleted the texts without even looking at them. He went to work. Stayed late. Came home, stared at the couch, ignored it, and crashed in his bed. He didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to feel. He didn’t want to ponder what he had done. What he was risking. The phone calls from Mycroft were easy to ignore. The black sedans and bodyguards slightly more difficult. But he managed.

Greg was at the pathology lab, discussing a recent autopsy with the new doctor. She was quiet and sweet, and Greg offered her a kind smile when she stammered. Sherlock strode in the door with an obnoxious bang, and the woman - Dr. Hooper, Greg remembered - jolted and dropped her clipboard. Greg ducked down and grabbed it, handing it to her. Then he turned around.

Sherlock looked better than he had expected. Greg had consciously cut off all of his contacts, any way he had to check up on Sherlock’s condition. He trusted the younger man. Trusted him to do the right thing. Okay, that was a lie. He hoped that Sherlock would make the right decision. It was a gamble, but one that appeared it might have paid off. His pupils were normal. He didn’t seem high.

“Hello,” Greg said evenly.

“Molly can do the test.” Sherlock jerked his head towards the small pathologist, who was now watching both of them with wary eyes.

“Alright.”

Greg supervised the sample. Walked it to Molly, who took it with a stammered thanks and quickly started running the tests she needed to confirm or deny drug use. When it came back clean, Greg allowed a quick, thankful smile to cross his face. He was proud. He was thankful. But he could show neither of those emotions. Taking a deep breath, he turned back to Sherlock and nodded slightly. “I’ve got some files in my office you could look at.”

Sherlock moved the tiniest amount. Like he wanted to reach out and touch Greg. Greg inhaled sharply, but Sherlock stopped himself. Instead, he nodded, and followed Greg out of the pathology lab. Greg took them back to the Yard, into his office, and handed him the files of two of the trickiest cases he had pulled out of the cold case unit.

The six months passed slowly but surely. Sherlock stayed clean, every time Greg tested him, which was about twice a week, each time at the pathology lab. By the end she would actually carry on a conversation with Greg, would tell him about her day, about this and that. She became his go-to when he had questions about an autopsy report. Sometimes he brought her small things to say thank you. In return, she let him know whether or not Sherlock had been there recently, and what he was doing.

Not that he needed that, much. Sherlock spent two or three nights a week in Greg’s flat, making a nuisance of himself. He sat on what Greg had dubbed his side of the sofa. Complained about the food, about the telly, about the tea - whatever wasn’t suiting his particular needs at the moment. Greg was fairly sure that Sherlock complained just to hear the sound of his own voice. He had an odd dislike for silence sometimes, unless he was deep in thought.

As time passed, Sherlock stopped complaining as much. Greg perfected his tea. Figured out what he liked to eat best, and made a point of making it to get Sherlock to eat. Found out what programmes would calm him or encourage sleep after a long case. An easy camaraderie grew between the two of them. Sometimes Greg would notice that Sherlock had scooted a few centimeters closer. Or tucked his feet up underneath him in a way that part of his long, elegant feet ended up on Greg’s half. In a way it was like Sherlock was encroaching on Greg’s territory. Testing the waters. Seeing what Greg would tolerate, and what he wouldn’t.

Greg didn’t forget the exact day six months had passed. It was rather difficult to not remember, especially when he woke up to see Sherlock’s face centimeters away and staring at him rather intently. “Bloody hell,” Greg muttered darkly.

“Six months.”

“No, really?” Greg retorted sarcastically. “Can I at least take a shower first?” It had been a long night at the office, and he had to be back later that afternoon.

Sherlock shrugged, and so Greg tossed back the duvet and stood, walking into the loo. He locked it behind him, just in case, before going about his business. Stepping into the shower, he exhaled slowly, relishing in the feel of the warm water hitting his cool skin. “So who are you?” Sherlock’s voice cut through the shower-induced bliss.

“Sherlock!” Greg scolded. “I locked the door for a reason.”

“I brought lockpicks for a reason,” Sherlock said nonchalantly.

Greg sighed. Maybe it would be easier to have the conversation when he couldn’t see Sherlock. He poured some shampoo into his hand and worked it into his hair, and talked. He kept his back to Sherlock, kept his voice even and steady. Next was his body, and he washed himself thoroughly, talking the entire while. Telling Sherlock his history. What he did. Who he was. Why he had come to Earth.

Sherlock was silent the entire time, a fact that worried Greg. The consulting detective focused on logic, not emotion. Would it come across as a delusion? A fantasy? Or would Sherlock acknowledge that he did not know everything? There were many unknowns. Greg inhaled and exhaled steadily once he had finished, the water starting to cool as it beat against his heated skin. It was time to get out. Time to face him.

When Greg stepped out of the shower, Sherlock handed him a towel. His face was closed. Guarded. Blank. But he was there. Greg dried himself off, starting with his hair, and working his way down. He was quiet, allowing Sherlock time to think, to process. “You’re lying.” Sherlock’s voice was flat.

“No, I’m really not.” Greg stepped out of the bathroom, leaving room for Sherlock to trail behind him. He dressed in sweatpants and a loose shirt. There was a few hours before he had to leave, and he might as well be comfortable. He doubted he was going anywhere. “You know I’m not. It all makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“It’s ludicrous.” Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, perching on the edge of Greg’s bed. “You can’t be an - Angel.” He sneered at the last word.

“I’m not,” Greg said steadily. He headed towards the kitchen. Coffee sounded perfect. “I was. I’m human now.”

“I’m leaving.” Sherlock stepped back, started to turn, and stopped. His hands were messing with his clothes. He was clearly torn, indecision clear in his posture.

“I already put on the kettle for some tea.” Greg’s voice was nonchalant, not pressuring. He could feel that Sherlock was on the edge. Balancing over a precipice. He didn’t want to be the thing that pushed him over.

“You don’t have to worry about me.” Sherlock’s voice was brittle. Bitter. Tinged with something that made Greg’s heart hurt. “You have no duty to me. I’ll release you from it.”

Greg blinked, half-turning so that he could see the consulting detective. Sherlock wouldn’t meet his eyes, staring somewhere to the left of Greg’s head. “You think that’s why I’m doing all this? Because I feel obligated?”

“Of course.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “It’s quite evident.”

“Sherlock, you were never an obligation,” Greg said quietly. The kettle went off, and he used it as an excuse to turn around, to break the growing tension. He could feel the uncertainty, the frustrating emanating from the younger man, and it made him nervous. When he turned around, tea in one hand and coffee in another, Sherlock was settled in his normal spot on the sofa. Fully dressed, the coat covering him, protecting him. Greg walked carefully, offering Sherlock the tea and placing it down on the table when he snubbed it.

He settled on his side of the couch, his mug in his hands. Sherlock reached out and grabbed the remote, turning on his favourite programme and upping the volume. Greg winced slightly, but said nothing. It wasn’t until the programme was over and Sherlock lowered the volume that Greg turned to look at him. “You want to do - what you’re doing.”

“Yes.” Greg sat the now empty mug on the table. Turned slightly, just enough to see Sherlock was still staring straight ahead.

“Hmm.” Sherlock made a noncommittal noise, and picked up the now cooled mug. He took a sip and made a disgusted face.

“It’s gone cold now, of course it doesn’t taste right,” Greg pointed out, standing and taking it from him.

“Get me more, then.” Sherlock waved his hand officiously. Greg rolled his eyes, but walked into the kitchen nonetheless.

Not much changed, after that. Not immediately. Sherlock still made a nuisance of himself. Greg still tested him. Molly had the honours. But things grew. Sherlock sat closer. More of him snuck across the invisible boundary. More feet. Ankles. Arms. Legs. The first time he touched Greg - just feet pressing against his thigh - the DI felt like he was going to have a heart attack. Sherlock’s toes were ice cold.

Sherlock touched him more. Leaned against him, looking at a case file. Rested a hand on his shoulder. Used one of his hands to guide Greg when he was leading him somewhere, often into danger. He smiled. They were quick, barely there, and rarely meant anything good, but they were there. One time Sherlock smoothed an errant bit of Greg’s hair, his concentration primarily on the case they were arguing about. Greg had stopped talking, losing his train of thought. Sherlock had snatched the opportunity, winning his argument, much to Greg’s annoyance.

As the months passed, neither talked about what changed. Sometimes Sherlock would lay with his head on Greg’s lap. Argue with the telly. Glare at Greg until the DI slid his hands into Sherlock’s hair, nails gently scraping over the scalp. Sherlock would close his eyes, emit a pleased hum, and relax. He would fall quiet, like the world bothered him less, just for those moments.

Something grew between them, something fragile. Tentative. Sometimes they would lock eyes, and Greg would see a wanting, a need - something that matched his own desire, but scared him nonetheless. Sherlock would stop closer, shift slightly, and then stop. Like he wanted it, but was frightened. Like he could see that stepping over that one last precipice might break both of them. Greg was afraid it would. That it would break everything they had spent years building up.

So instead they ignored it. Ignored the way that Sherlock stopped sleeping on the couch and moved into Greg’s bed. Ignored the way they woke up intertwined, bodies pressed against each other. Ignored the way it felt safe. Right. Like the last puzzle piece had slotted into place. The way they had fallen into a routine. How Greg knew exactly what Sherlock wanted, and what he needed.

Ignored the fact that it was obvious to all but them that they were in love with each other.

Months turned into years. Sometimes Sherlock was all but glued to Greg’s side. Other times Greg would go days without seeing him. Greg had his sources, and it was okay. He trusted Sherlock. Trusted whatever the tentative ‘thing’ was that had built up between them. They didn’t talk about it. Didn’t name it. Greg preferred to not think about it at all, really. It was easier that way.

Greg had made a name for himself, even with Sherlock’s help. The latest case had been complex, and Sherlock had finally cracked it, sent Greg the address for the murderer. Greg had taken a team with him, but it was supposed to be a relatively simple arrest. Instead, there had been a burst of fire and Greg had ended up in the hospital, a bullet through his shoulder. Fecking guns. Greg hated the damn things.

He upped the morphine, laid back on the bed. Just on the borderline of blissed-out. He couldn’t sleep, but at the very least a doze would have been appreciated. It had been over a week since he had last seen Sherlock, and all he wanted was to curl up with the taller man and sleep. He checked his phone, saw no messages. It wasn’t productive to feel sorry for himself. They weren’t in a relationship. There wasn’t anything there. They were just friends, after all. He didn’t need Sherlock. Not in that way, anyway.

He was dozing on and off when the door slid open, and a shadow was cast onto the bed. Greg opened his eyes, face breaking out into a smile when he saw who it was. Wincing, he slid to the side of the bed and patted the spot next to him. His face shifted, becoming more concerned, when he caught a better view of Sherlock. He looked haggard, like he hadn’t slept in a week. There were blue/purple splotches under his eyes, although his clothes were impeccable.

“You look horrible,” Greg informed him, unable to keep the worry out of his voice.

“So do you.” Sherlock shed his coat and climbed onto the bed, careful as he curled up next to Greg. His head was on Greg’s non-injured shoulder, face pressed into the crook of Greg’s neck, and an arm was draped over his middle. A warmth spread through Greg’s body, and he felt himself relax into the embrace. He shifted slightly, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s curls in friendly acknowledgement. It was nice to have him there. He felt comfortable. Safe. Like nothing else mattered, when they were together.

Greg lifted his hand, stroked it up and down Sherlock’s back, soothing. There was a fragility to the other man that he didn’t like. It made him nervous. Worried. The last thing he wanted was for Sherlock to end up on drugs. “I can’t sleep when you’re not there.” Sherlock’s voice was muffled, and Greg’s hand stilled, instead splaying itself over Sherlock’s back. Greg blinked a few times, surprised.

“You haven’t slept?” Greg murmured, his hand resuming the motions, and he pressed another kiss to Sherlock’s curls.

“What did I just say?” Sherlock snorted his irritation, and then burrowed closer to Greg. “You can’t sleep with anyone else.”

“I don’t,” Greg replied, bemused.

“Ever.”

“Okay.”

Greg stared down at Sherlock, trying to figure out exactly what had happened. He felt like he was too warm, like things were too much, and at the same time, he wanted Sherlock closer to him. He never wanted to let go. Slipping a hand to Sherlock’s chin, he nudged at his face slightly, and Sherlock obediently lifted his head, raising an eyebrow and facing Greg with a petulant scowl. “What do you want? I’m trying to sleep.”

Slowly Greg leaned forward, just close enough, and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. Sherlock went very still, his eyes wide with surprise. Greg pulled back, hesitant, his hand cupping Sherlock’s cheek. Had he done it wrong? He didn’t have a frame of reference. Wasn’t this what one was supposed to do, after whatever Sherlock had said? Or something. Greg didn’t really know. Everything was rather confusing.

Sherlock propped himself up, pulling back for a brief moment, and Greg looked up at the ceiling, embarrassment colouring his cheeks a light pink. Then Sherlock descended on him, cupping his face awkwardly, and closing the distance between them yet again. The kiss was tender and sweet, like they had all the time in the world, and hesitantly Greg parted his lips when he felt the shy brush of Sherlock’s tongue.

The angle was awkward. Sherlock was a bit too insistent. His elbow was tugging at one of the wires attached to Greg’s chest. But it was perfect. Greg whimpered when Sherlock pulled back, his cheeks flushed, his breathing accelerated. “We have to stop,” Sherlock murmured. Greg scowled. “Unless you want all the nurses running in here when your heart monitor alarms.”

He turned his scowl to the appropriate machinery and wished it would light itself on fire. Unfortunately it failed to comply, and instead Greg turned his gaze back to Sherlock. “So.”

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. “If you are wanting to ask if we are, as they would say, ‘in a relationship’, I have always found that a boring term.”

Greg blinked. “What, then?”

“But if you think you are allowed to do any of this with someone else, you are sorely mistaken.”

There was silence for a few moments. A comfortable one, borne of months and years of close, intimate contact. “So can I introduce you to Mycroft as my boyfriend, then?” Greg asked hopefully.

“Go to sleep.”

“Lover?”

“No.”

“Snookums?”

“I am going to turn the morphine up. It’ll knock you out.” Greg trapped Sherlock’s arms to prevent him from moving, although Sherlock could have if he made the effort. Instead he curled closer to Greg, rolling his eyes.

“Partner?”

“If you must.”

Greg couldn’t stop the grin that lit up his face, and his fingers trailed up and down Sherlock’s lanky back. It wasn’t long before the consulting detective drifted off to sleep against him, his breathing slow and steady. Peaceful. Content. Like he felt safe, curled up against Greg. He wasn’t ready to admit it was love. He didn’t want to name it, what had grown between them. But the one thing Greg was certain was that he would never trade it for anything else.

It had been a long road, what they had gone through. Good and bad. Hard and easy. Sherlock would never make his life a cakewalk. He would irritate his staff. Fight with him. Call them stupid. Incompetent. But at the end of the day, he would come home to Greg, and they could curl up together, and pretend the rest of it didn’t exist. What they called it didn’t matter. What did matter was the actions that they took that demonstrated the connection between them. A long, lazy kiss was worth more to Greg than the three words that the rest of humanity used to demonstrate the connection. Neither of them were much for talking, after all.

The day he had Fallen wasn’t the best day in his life, but it had led him to Sherlock. To the life he now led. Sherlock wasn’t perfect. Greg wasn’t either. In the end, it was their imperfections that made them perfect. And that was something Greg would never regret.

**Author's Note:**

> What the summary should be: 'Greg and Sherlock have feelings but they spend 8K not freaking talking about them.'
> 
> God it was a pain to get these two together. But I loved writing this piece, and I hope all of you enjoyed reading it!


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